This story starts, as all good stories do, in a beauty parlor. I should probably say �most� good stories, because I imagine that there are some with beginnings in a bait shop or a polo field. Places where burly men gather with their expensive cigars and Prada thongs, swanning around while shooting off zip guns. But since I am not a man but a beautiful, beautiful lady, my good story starts (as all good stories do) in a beauty parlor. Paulette, my nice hairdresser lady, was applying semi-permanent chestnut-colored dye to my roots. I like Paulette. She has a kindly demeanor and enjoys arranging my hair in a style she calls the �Victoria�s Secret.�

�I have a friend in Colorado who�s a really good psychic,� said Paulette. �I�ve been thinking about calling her.� The nozzle of the dye bottle traced a lightning fork across my scalp. The possibility of communing with those beyond the grave and getting their take on me appealed to my sense of supernatural narcissism, so I asked for her friend�s number, and later arranged an appointment for a reading over the phone.

My appointment was last night. I settled into a comfortable wing chair with a glass of wine and a notebook and pen, and called Charlene the Psychic. She answered the phone with a warm �Hi, Violet!� which momentarily struck me as psychic until I recalled the modern convenience of caller ID.

We began the session with a prayer that Charlene said while I stared into the middle distance on my end of the line. She invited people into her space�Archangel Michael, Jesus (of course), another angel named Uriel, and a being named Ulysses that she claimed not to know much about. I was hoping for General Grant, but she explained that he was an alien. �Oh, and here�s Diana,� she said. I was touched that the Goddess of the Hunt showed up for my little reading, given her busy schedule, but Charlene added, �That�s Princess Diana.� I�m still feeling a little of the strain from my violent eye-roll. �She says you contacted her,� she said.

I took a sip of wine to combat my disbelief, and then suddenly remembered that the previous evening, I�d come across an old issue of the New Yorker, and read a single article: a biography of Princess Diana. I don�t know that I really contacted her per se, but I did think about her for a while after I read the article, so apparently that counts and is cheaper for those of us with limited calling plans.

We conversed for some time, this Charlene and I. The majority of her �messages� were generic and applicable to most people (�you do too much for others�you need to take time for yourself�), and I was particularly taken aback by her unconvincing impression of someone she claimed was my grandmother, but who sounded more like an extra on the Beverly Hillbillies. �Your grandmother is right here�oh, she is sitting down. I should move my handbag.�

Following that charade, I got Charlene to ask her spirit guides what theme they recommended for my upcoming painting exhibit. They came back with the excellent and cogent: Seasons. �I had been considering a series on the Zodiac,� I offered, meaning the astrological signs and not the possibly-still-at-large! serial killer. �They�re saying no,� relayed Charlene. So, fine. If the Archangel Michael wants me to do a series of paintings with the theme of seasons, I am doing a series of seasons. It�s as simple as that.

Eventually, it came time to wrap up, which was all right, as my wine glass was empty and the dogs I�m sitting wanted to go for a walk.

�Let me just close the space,� said Charlene, and began a series of thank-yous and good-byes to the entities who had attended my reading. I mentally waved them farewell as I listened to her litany. Did they just disappear? I wondered, or was there dramatic swirling of vapors involved?

As I entertained myself with that vision, I heard Charlene stop suddenly and say, �Oh! � OK.� As if she were answering a question. I waited, and she explained, �John Denver is here. He wants to stay. He likes what you�re doing, and he wants to stay behind when the others leave.� Isn�t that just like a musician? �I think I�ll just� hang around a while� I�m really interested in your music�� (looking in the liquor cabinet, checking me out for exposed lingerie straps). But still: John Denver�s incorporeal form wanted to hang out with me! Is he still here? I�m thinking he is still here, guiding my steps, filling up my senses. Are you muy jelioso!? I would be, if I were you.

I printed out this picture for inspiration (see illustration):

ILLUSTRATION

Sing it with me:

You fill up my senses
Like a �thing with some �stuff�
Like a [something] in the desert,
Like a guy on the train.
Like a walk in a minefield,
Like a sleepy blue kitten.
John Denver�s my ghost guide,
My hair looks so great!

Star of the day. . .Sweetheart, happy birthday one day late